


Release

by delicate_mageflower



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, D/s, Dirty Talk, Escapism, F/M, Face Slapping, Hair Pulling, Handcuffs, Heavy BDSM, Heavy Breathplay, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Relationship, Romantic Tension, Rope Bondage, Size Difference, Spanking, Vaginal Sex, Waxplay, Whips and Chains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17834570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delicate_mageflower/pseuds/delicate_mageflower
Summary: Astrid Trevelyan and the Iron Bull work out the early details of their dynamic, allowing there to be no holds barred when they set their next scene.





	Release

“We need to talk about what happened between us.”

Negotiations, understandings. Ground rules for a good time. If this is going to be a _thing,_ it’s important to be on the same page. It’s a matter of safety.

“I will never hurt you without your permission.”

He has it, though, Maker knows. _Bull_ knows, knows he can have it, knows how she needs it.

“Say ‘katoh’ and it’s over. No questions asked.”

That’s a challenge, as far as she’s concerned. Will he outright try to make her say it? How far will he go? How far will she let him?

“You don’t have to be afraid…unless you want to.”

 _That_ sends shivers down her spine.

He has a system, has it all planned for them. She’s been down similar paths before, but nothing so precise, so delicately laid out. She’s been dominated to a point, but most of her sexual experiences have been Circle trysts, which always had limits whether their participants wanted them or not. This level of submission is new, and it is _wanted._ She’s been waiting for a chance like this, and the Iron Bull is here to give it to her.

“Take me,” she tells him once they’ve gotten this all out of the way.

“Can do,” he replies, pulling her wrists together in the same breath.

She doesn’t know if he has any hard limits. Void, she isn’t sure if _she_ has any hard limits. But she supposes she’s going to find out.

And she cannot fucking wait.

Clothes are off in no time, bodies hot and eager.

And Bull came prepared this time. He read the signs once more, but it would have been just as easy to leave with his bag of tricks as without it if he’d been wrong.

Rope, cuffs, chains, collars, whips, crops—yes, of course, the basics.

Candles, knives—not quite part of the starter pack, but they more than have her attention.

Blindfolds, ball gags—those can wait. This time, she wants to look at him. This time, she wants her mouth accessible to his.

(Kissing has never been so integral to sex to her in the past. She’s afraid to ask if it’s the case for him. But it makes her feel so much closer to him, makes her feel _special._ It’s warm and intimate and…it’s fucking weird and terrifying. She doesn’t want to think about that right now. She only wants to think about how good this feels, how much better it can still get.)

“Arms up…mm, yes, just like that.” He cuffs her wrists together, chains her through the links in her bindings to the bedpost. He makes sure they have enough give for him to be able to shift her around, to move her as he sees fit. She obeys so readily, so easily. He presses his lips to hers, taking her all in, giving all of himself to her in return. He scratches down her back, pleased with the way she quivers beneath his touch.

Her body is taut, on full display, stretched out with her arms over her head and struggling to steady her feet on the floor. She can reach comfortably, but only just.

And the look in her eyes…

“Tell me what you want.”

“Hit me.”

_Oh._

He came prepared in his way but so did she, it seems; she’s been thinking about this, fantasizing. He wonders how many times she’s touched herself imagining this. Fuck knows how much he has.

“Where?”

“Wherever you like.”

_Oh…fuck._

He starts simple, turning her around and bringing his hand down hard upon her ass, met with the most beautifully breathless cry.

“Please, ser…again.”

He complies, and she would stumble if she wasn’t bound. The sound of his strike alone is piercing, and the echo of his hand lingers in glorious red across her skin.

He grips her hips, digging his fingers into her flesh, and turns her back to face him.

He softly runs a hand along her cheek as if a dare, and she nods. She has to close her eyes to brace for the impact, but Maker is that _amazing._

“Again?”

“Please, ser.”

He slaps her face another time, just as hard, claiming her other cheek with this one.

“Good girl,” he smiles and kisses her again.

She needs to forget who she is. She needs to feel something besides the weight of the world. She needs not to think about all the fates in her hand. She needs to relinquish control.

She needs to come until she can’t see straight. And she needs it to hurt.

His hand slides up to her neck, and the way she gasps tells him everything he needs to know.

“If you cannot speak and it gets to be too much, I need you to kick me. Once and I’ll ease up, a second time and I’ll stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser.”

He strengthens his grip just slightly, careful not to impede her quite yet.

“Is this want you want?”

“Yes, ser.”

A little tighter, just a little.

“Is this what you _need?”_

“Yes, ser.”

He can hear it in her voice, too, her tone laden with lust and desperation. He unravels her so easily, and she hums so happily when he squeezes harder, harder, harder…

He brings himself closer, almost directly against her, not only to make it easier for her to stop him but also so he can begin _really_ teasing.

He bends over just enough, taking advantage of his height and the length of his limbs, keeping the one hand around her throat while the other brushes against her clit. He keeps his eye close on her facial expressions and color, carefully studying her to ensure she is in no real danger.

Her legs are tensing, careful not to alarm him or alert him to a change that isn’t there. She doesn’t want him to stop. She needs him not to stop.

She likes this, the literally dizzying euphoria, the way her heart rate increases and her vision blurs adding to the excitement.

And she trusts him, trusts she’ll be safe here. She understands he could kill her like this, has no doubt he has deliberately strangled an enemy to death at some point in his life. But she is safe in his hands, and she loves it. It is absolutely exhilarating, colored spots dancing across her ever deteriorating frame of vision.

She is already shaking, using all focus she can maintain on holding her legs in place, and feeling _everything._ He is still moving so delicately between her clit and reaching inside her, but she is somehow so close already.

He concentrates on her well being, yes, assessing the risk they are taking by the second, but he also feels the effect it has on her, how soaking wet she is in his hands. Struggling for breath, fumbling closer and closer towards the edge of consciousness, just as rapidly falling into the first of what promises to be many orgasms of the evening.

Her eyes are gazing vaguely towards the ceiling and she’s turning a shade of red he doesn’t like, so he lets go. She inhales hard, stops for a moment to let her catch her breath, holds her at her waist to keep her steady when her legs give out.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you stop?”

He bites his tongue before he can offer a response, catching a word he did not expect to even consider. “Kadan” nearly creeps out, though, and he is thankful he manages to stop it before it’s too late.

“Astrid,” he settles on instead, her actual name. It’s grounding for her to hear it, to be reminded she is still a person, not just the Inquisitor (or worse yet, the “Herald”). It brings her back down to earth, helps keep her calm. So that will be more than good enough for now. “I told you, you will always be safe. I only want to be sure—”

He is gentle here, concerned and doting. This isn’t what she wants. Or it isn’t what she wants to want.

Regardless, that is not the point of _this._

“I’m fine, Bull,” she insists, interrupting. “I’d have tapped out if I wasn’t. I promise.”

“Well…” He finds actually has to think for a moment, consider how to proceed. It isn’t often people surprise him, but she has already managed to throw him for a couple of loops.

He’d expected her to be a brat, or perhaps to have more switch tendencies. But no, she is _submissive,_ startlingly so, and she may need this release even more than he’d guessed.

“Well,” he starts again, resuming character, “I have something else you can choke on, if that’s what you want.”

He releases her wrists from her cuffs but leaves the props where they are. She eagerly drops to her knees, although the quick fall is not entirely voluntary. He reaches behind her, grabs her by the hair, and leads her to rise up far enough to reach him. She is as close to standing as she can bring herself still kneeling in order to adjust for his height. She stops for a moment, looks up at him with wide eyes, and then wraps her lips around the head of his cock.

And _fuck,_ how hard she tries to force him all in. He watches her eyes brighten, sees them start to water the deeper she makes it. Alas, one cannot lubricate or stretch a throat so well, and there is only so far she’ll get. But he is in awe of how hard she works, how much she tries. The effort alone is nearly enough to overwhelm him. And he bets she’d swallow like a champion.

“Stop, you can stop, k—” _Dammit._ He almost says it again. He catches it in time, however, cuts it off soon enough for it to be mistaken for a grunt. Heat of the moment, that’s all, no big deal.

She pulls her head back, still staring upwards. She can’t look away. Or won’t. In either case, it is unbearably beautiful.

She does him in so profoundly he wonders how long it would even take him to recharge if he were to finish. He weighs it against how close he is, how much longer he can hold out for her.

He decides to take his chances. He won’t force her to take him down her throat again when he’s already let that go. He’ll give that a rest and take his focus back to her.

_Stitches’s poultices. Burnt turnips. The Breach. Getting lost in the Hinterlands. Red lyrium. Elfroot. Anything. Anything but her eyes like this. Anything but the way she’s looking at you. Relax. Breathe. Take it slow. Calm it down. Do it for her._

He pulls on her hair some more, prompting her to stand, and then he pushes her down onto the bed.

He picks up the rope, something to heighten her intrigue and anticipation, as well as to give himself some additional distraction.

He works elaborate knots and patterns along her arms and across her chest, reminiscent of qunari antaam-saar armor (he’s going to have to ask her to wear that for him). He loops an additional length of the rope to bind her wrists again, once more holding her arms above her head and holding her in position there.

He hasn’t yet touched the other items she’d had her eyes on. He should fix that.

He remains hard as a fucking rock while he deliberates which to try first. And she is still staring that _incredible_ stare.

The whip it is. She can’t look at him that way if she has her back turned.

He doesn’t undo any of the rope work after he drags her by her wrists off of the bed, but simply places her back the yet hanging cuffs over the rope. He has to fasten them a lot looser to compensate, but she does not so much as flinch.

He decides, too, to place the collar around her neck, and he rearranges the chain around the bedpost to attach the collar by its o-ring. Again he ensures there is plenty of give so she is in no danger when he twists her back and forth, and he sees how her eyes close in excited approval of the additional restraint, can feel her pulse elevate when his hands are along her neck.

“You look beautiful,” he says once this round of work is done. “Such a good little slut. You are going to have so much to explain to your advisors; the bruises, why it hurts to sit down, why you can’t walk straight. I am going to make you come so hard you can’t feel your legs.”

He grazes his teeth along the exposed skin of her neck and whispers in her ear, “I am going to fucking _conquer you.”_

He turns her to face away from him, and she is breathing heavily when she hears him crack the whip once into the air as a warning.

She adjusts her eyes as best she can to try to catch a glimpse of him when she has her back to him, with little success. She bites her bottom lip hard and screws her eyes shut, and she shouts when the whip first collides with her skin.

“Mm, you like that,” he responds. “Fuck, you _sound_ as good as you look.”

Braided leather bites flesh another time, and she shrieks. Her eyes water even more, burning as tears start to stream down her cheeks, but she remains silent.

He was right, this is precisely what she needs.

Another crack, another sting, another scream. And then another. And another. Red stripes paint her back, from her shoulder blades down to her hips, remnants of her desire, her submission, her trust in him and acceptance of him.

He surprises her by getting close behind her, slapping the whip around her front, letting it dig into around her waist when he pulls her towards him with it. He holds it together in one hand and slips the other between her legs, admiring the pronounced effect this is having on her.

She is so damn turned on he can smell it, and he drops the whip on the floor and steps back. He comes back and it is the crop this time which he slams across her hips, repeatedly hitting downwards bit by bit until her ass is redder and sore.

She is still howling with every blow, but the sound transforms into more of a moan every time.

“You should see yourself,” he says, his voice low and firm. “The fucking _Inquisitor_ under my control. If they only knew what a filthy little whore you are, so easy to take, so eager for whatever I can do to you. I could fuck you while the entire world watches, take you in every tavern, at every campsite…in every Chantry. Show the revered mothers who you _really_ are, how fucking divine they can’t even _imagine._ And you’d let me, wouldn’t you? I bet you would _love_ it.”

“Yes, ser,” she whispers. She doesn’t even understand why, but she would. For whatever reason she couldn’t begin to explain, there isn’t a single hint of doubt she absolutely would.

She feels the knife next, delicately run up her spine. It’s a bit dull, specifically for this purpose, but it does the job. She shivers, gasps, whines.

He bites down on her shoulder and slides the knife across her thigh, scratching with it until it rests just below her cunt. From there he brings it up, lets it skip across her hip bone, nearly breaks skin a couple of inches to the right of her navel.

He cuts lightly beneath her breasts, although it is dull enough she does not bleed. His next target is the back of her neck from ear to ear, and she hums with arousal. He gently takes his left hand back to her neck, squeezes his thumb and index finger lightly at the veins below her ears, and her head spins.

She is in complete sensory overload by now, but in the best of ways: nerves on end, every point of her body so sensitive to any and every touch he offers.

She never knew it could feel like this. She never knew how badly she’d craved it to feel like this.

He steps away again and she whimpers at the loss of contact, but she quickly hears the strike of a match and takes in the scent of smoke, knowing full well what this means is next.

Hot wax drips down her back, accents the lean musculature honed from so many years of wielding a staff and all these recent months of frequent combat.

He turns her to face him again, and those pleading eyes meet him once more. She is unravelling from this alone, and she sighs at the wax hitting one nipple and then the other, falling to meet the traces of his knifework. She is covered in mementos, littered with evidence of all he has done to her.

He lifts one of her legs so it rests at his side, straining her but making his meaning clear: once to lessen, twice to stop. He pauses, gives her the chance to opt out early, and he tugs on the chains at the collar when she doesn’t, causing more pressure to bear harder on her neck. He lifts her chin with one strong hand, gripping it harshly, and he brings her head up to kiss him. From there he eases on the chains and places his hands around her throat again, this time feeling well how hard her legs tense, how much self-control she exudes to keep herself from stopping this by accident.

And again he cradles her by the two fingers on his left hand, thrusting them into her while his thumb presses hard against her clit. She barely makes any noise, only a few muffled cries quietly escaping his grasp. She can’t scream and she can’t see, but she does not kick. She does not want him to let up, melting in his hands, falling into him like liquid. Overcome, obedient, owned. Boneless, undone, falling apart completely in his hold. She comes hard, her pulse throbbing under one set of fingers, her cunt clenching and gushing around the other.

Her legs are shaking, her body nearly spasming, but she does not want this to end. Feeling so light and lost in battle is one thing, and not an experience she is particularly fond of. But here, when it is him taking her away in this manner, it is a most welcome escape, longing for every last sensation leading up to the total lack thereof.

Her leg finally falls and she goes completely limp against him, and he does not hesitate to let her loose the second he feels her go out. He moves closer and wraps one arm around her, holding her against his chest to prevent injury while he one-handedly undoes the collar then cuffs, so practiced and deft she is unbound in a matter seconds, hardly a moment before she regains consciousness.

He carefully leads her back into the bed but keeps her sitting for a moment.

“Breathe,” he instructs while her vision normalizes. Safety must come first here, his hands on her back and shoulder for a good couple of minutes before he will allow play to continue. “Just breathe…”

And again he has to bite his tongue, again he narrowly avoids using the endearment continuously hiding just behind his lips and ready to come forward whether either of them are or not.

“Maker,” she exhales once she feels comfortable enough to speak again. “Fuck, I…”

It occurs to both of them how extremely intimate this level of sadomasochism has become, how soon. Both remain silent on the subject.

“I didn’t use the word,” she continues after a few more beats, and he cannot help but laugh.

“Relax,” he replies, keeping himself contained a little longer. He listens for the rate of her breathing to calm, watches for the color of her face to return to normal. He takes her wrist, this time to feel for her heartbeat to slow.

He is cautious, painstakingly so, and she briefly feels a pang of jealousy at the thought of how many other people he has done this to.

Once he is sure she is alright to continue, and then another brief wait after to be safe, he guides her to lie down by again pulling her hair, and then he slips down to spread her legs, and he swiftly puts his tongue to work.

He buries his face in her, licking and sucking until her legs resume shaking over his shoulders—not that it takes long.

She is shouting his name, begging for his cock, and he is so hard it hurts.

She is quick to come again, and he is growing as desperate as she.

Lubricating oils are in his pockets, just as last time, and he doesn’t even pay attention to how much he’s using. He pours out a whole vial without meaning to, and he doesn’t care. He can get more; it’s worth the waste, worth the cost.

“Fuck,” he exclaims when he enters her, sliding right in, and this is all that concerns him. He holds her legs up, spread wide, and snaps his hips into her harder and harder, each and every thrust making her louder and louder, coaxing her into unadulterated bliss which can be only described by such mindless yet passionate screaming.

They are both hot and tense, both rendered entirely helpless by each other, hard slaps of bodies colliding almost inaudible under the sound of her release.

His breath quickens, too, intensifies, staring again at her scattered marks, at the rise and fall of the intricate ropework across her chest, her eyes in the back of her head, her disheveled hair. Her neck and wrists are a reddish purple, so gorgeously complementing all the rest of his claims across her skin. There is nothing about this scene which isn’t perfect, including but not limited to the specific person underneath him.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he growls. “Fuck…”

She struggles to find her voice, so tight around him, so consumed below him. She finds it, though, gathers enough coherent thought to beg of him, “Let me swallow you, ser.”

He almost doesn’t make it, but he pulls out and pulls her hair again, forcing her mouth to him, and this time she doesn’t try to take him further than the head but it is more than enough, her gaze igniting his fucking soul as he comes down her throat and she takes it all without effort.

Last time he refused to let himself stay, refused to risk exacerbating the emotional attachment he was already beginning to feel. This time, however, he elects to throw caution to the wind. He isn’t sure he could make it back to his room anyway, everything in him expended beyond what his will can fight.

And he has to stay, at least for a little while, after how _much_ that was.

He brings her to lay her head on his chest, feels how loose and heavy she is. He softly and casually rubs her back and shoulders. They’d need to move for him to do a proper job, though, and neither are willing to do so. He kisses the top of her head, delicate now. Aftercare is new to her, and it is almost nice to feel so fragile in this context. He just broke her so beautifully, and how he holds her to keep her together.

Eventually, somehow, blankets happen, and even in their shared sleepy haze he ensures she is well covered and tucked in. He takes some of them, too, lying beside her after a time, but she remains the priority. He continues with soft, small kisses all over from the shoulders up, silently reminding her she is safe with him no matter what happens in the throes of passion. No matter how rough and intense it gets, no matter how much he hurts her, he will be there to take care of her when it is over. He will be there to hold her and let her need him in this drastically different manner, but one she does need him in all the same.

They fall asleep like this, comfortable and content. They both want this to last forever. This is what they _need._


End file.
